Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
by Joshua Allen
Howard thinks about his wife more often than not these
days. The buzz of the reel when a fish is hooked and makes a run
reminds him of the way his wife Sara used to hum to every song.
She never sang the words. You don't know the words to a single
to yooou, she would start, but somewhere around the third "happy
He rolls one more cast upstream far enough away in the deep
water that he can only assume his fly is dancing below the
spot.
Depends, he would say with a grin, how much do you love fly-
hooks his fly into the cork grip of his rod, he wishes she were
occasions when his father had taken him on his fishing trips to
Navajo Lake (always when all his father's friends were out of
town), he used to sit in his dad's Chevy pickup and trace this
embankment and all he could see was grass, maybe a few twisted
the Navajo emerged, dotted with specks of the sun and boats. The
occasional bald eagle would circle at the far end, near the
thicker trees, waiting for its eye to catch its next dive-bomb
victim. On the left, the San Juan River flowed out like a leak
sprung from the massive concrete structure. They passed over the
dam on the way to the boat ramp, and if he sat high on his seat,
he could see the slope that pointed to the river, a giant stone
water slide.
"I heard some teenagers tried to slide down that last year.
They never found the bodies." His dad said this as an afterword
some day I'll teach you how to fly-fish. Would you like that,
kiddo?"
week. One of them caught some water in his waders and was swept
testing the depth with the end of his pole. He sees the kid
friends call his name to the banks. Little steps, that's the
key. Kids these days are always in such a hurry. He steps down
and the water goes from knee-deep to almost above his chest-
schools are so big they can see the fish across the river at its
widest point. The men line up along the strips of land in the
middle of the river and the edge, cursing when they get tangled
to take a trophy from the famed river. He and Sara used to pass
first taught him to lift and roll his line, using the current as
weight, loading the rod to shoot the fly to the perfect spot.
with your eyes, you can look at a spot and know that he's there,
orange and yellow worms that simply flow into his open mouth. He
* * *
Howard had only caught a trophy once. It had been well over
live.
where the current was heaviest. His leader was ten pound test,
the fish was more than a match so he'd let it run when it moved,
wrist was throbbing. His friend, fishing from the shore, had
"It's huge! You gotta get that thing mounted. I'm gonna go grab
my camera!"
With his left hand he'd held his fly-rod out of the river.
With his right, he'd scooped his net toward the fish. It had
bolted when it felt the disturbance and he'd felt his line
finally give.
the mighty fish had been trapped by the green nylon network, and
was staring at him with one eye. Its red and purple stripes were
especially bright. It had been mating season, then, and the fish
plaque in his den. What would Sara think? Oh, Howard... she
would be trying to smile and be happy for him. How could you
gently, he'd freed the tiny number fourteen hook with its piece
of yellow chamois chewed almost off. He then had put the net in
the water, and had guided the fish upright with his hand,
regained its composure quickly and let the stream take it away a
"Ron, I've told you I hate 'Howie,' haven't I?" Howard had
Same size fly, same size leader as that day, Howard thinks
leaning over the deep water. He grabs it at the same moment his
clippers spill out of his pocket, sink quickly and come to rest
on the edge of the ridge. Howard sets the rod on the shore, then
breath, eyes locked on his clippers, and plunges his hand into
the water. His elbow follows, then his shoulder, and finally his
ice rushing across his cheek. Howard's sleeve unrolls into the
his fingers, he slides his arm out of the water. He slips the
clippers back into his pocket and starts rubbing the feeling
back into his arm and fingers. The screaming pain begins to dull
in the sunlight.
Bright red, his claw melts back into a hand. The water is
cold enough to freeze, his father used to say. Only the motion
When his left hand is warm enough, he picks up his pole and
leader, minding the hook, and pulls the line through the eyes of
the pole, letting the current help it along. With his line
several feet downstream, he lifts the tip of his rod and moves
it upstream, loading the rod. The rod finally snaps forward and
the line shoots up and out, just above the spot where the king
thicker line. The tiny worm passes the rock without event. He
repeats the roll cast a few more times and each time the line
when she still had reasons to laugh. A smile touches his face,
He pulls his line in and swaps the small orange worm with a
small chamois worm tied to the same size hook. He lets out the
line again and flips the fly to the far side of the rock. As it
his kingdom into the open terrain of the river. It jerks and
Howard fights the king, but not for long. The fish surrenders,
why.
He thinks of the first time his dad said those same words,
when he was eight. At the time, he thought that fish was the
biggest in the lake, but it had been probably no bigger than the
Howard'd had on his hook had been much more appetizing and much
less mobile. The fish had it swallowed before Howard had felt a
twitch. His dad had tried to free the hook with a pair of needle
puking into the lake, seeing the fish with its intestines
He takes out his pliers and tries once to free the hook. The
fish jerks at the most inopportune moment and the pliers tear
into his fragile gills. Damn. Howard unsheathes his fillet knife
and picks the fish up, belly-side down. With a flash he brings
the dull edge of the knife down on the king's skull. It seizes,
the fish's belly and opens it up to the jaw. With one pull he
frees its gills and bowels, tosses them on shore for the
mesh pocket on the back of his vest. As he's putting the knife
back into its sheath, he fumbles and the knife dives into the
water. On its way to the riverbed, the razor sharp edge plunges
The force and weight of the water is more than Howard can resist
as it pulls his leg down and deep. The water hits his chest and
his lungs clamps shut, forbidding his breath. More water rushes
into his waders and Howard begins to thrash and tear at the
suspenders as they cut into his shoulders; he fights to keep his
He stops moving, but has no idea why. He realizes that his right
The strap cuts deep into his right shoulder as the river, quite
The machine that pumped breath into her was an arm's reach
growing louder as his hand settled back into his lap. Another
noise crept into the song. Sara was humming along with the song,
himself.
He strains with his left hand to grab the branch his right
and the suspender is finally able to pull off his shoulder. His
head shoots out of the water. With this newfound breath of air,
Curling into a ball, trying to will the pain away, Howard hopes
he has not come to rest on a fire ant hill. He doesn't know how
much time passes before he is able to pull out the fish from his
vest. He lays it out on the ground, trying his best to wipe the
him once, right after she found out. Well, then, I'd never have
tune from their days in high school. Would you finally love me
presses his lips against the trout's fading red stripe. He feels
the river flow over his body, but it is no longer icy cold. It
pulls his eyelids down. The distant sound of humming, from far
the trout's body with his hand and lets the river carry him away.
The End